Clash of Iron (17 page)

Almost before their commander’s order was out, the Romans had sorted into a three-man-sided grid of nine, with enough space in between each to use their swords unhindered. Their elaborately helmeted leader took the centre spot. Not the bravest of men, then.

“Watch for ambush!” came the order, but it was unnecessary. Already the Romans were peering into the bushes and up and down the road. Atlas’ plan had probably been for Chamanca and Carden to attack from behind while he distracted them. He’d underestimated their training. They’d have a procedure for exactly the situation they were in, perfected over centuries and drilled into them again and again on the parade ground. With the vagaries of individual decision-making removed, their response to the lone man in the road had been automatic, unified and perfect.

She’d seen people underestimate the Romans before. They were all dead now. Not that the Romans were invulnerable, far from it, but they took a bit more killing than the average fool. Chamanca’s hands tightened around the handles of her sword and her mace. She made an effort to breathe calmly and slowly. There was going to be blood.

“Cut him down,” came the calm order from the Roman leader.

Atlas roared like a charging aurochs. She and Carden leapt from the ditch. The back line of Romans hadn’t been distracted by Atlas’ shout. They spotted the new threat immediately and readied themselves.

“Two more sir, to the rea—” the leftmost of them managed before Chamanca’s ball-mace smashed his jaw. Trained they might be, but they weren’t ready for her speed.

“Down!” shouted Carden.

She dropped into a crouch, chopping her blade through the leg of the central Roman. Her attack was unnecessary, since Carden’s swinging sword severed the heads from both remaining backmarkers. She was glad, however, to see how easily her new blade cleaved flesh and bone.

She dived backwards, avoiding the arterial spurt from the man’s thigh, on to her hands. She flicked over, spun, and landed on her feet to face the Romans. All this gymnastic leaping was unnecessarily flamboyant, but she meant to surprise the remaining Romans into surrender. It worked.

Atlas had killed the three at the front. Two junior soldiers and their boss were staring at her like head-whacked fish. Atlas’ axe flashed from behind them and split the leftmost soldier from neck to waist. A great wash of blood drenched the other two. Their swords dropped with thuds on to the hard-packed road and they whimpered. There was always a point at which people forgot their training.

“That one,” said Atlas to Carden, nodding at the legionary. Carden lifted his sword.

“No! Please! Not him! Not him! Don’t kill him! I’ll do anything! Take me!” The leader was screeching in passable Gaulish, which was close enough to the British language that they understood him. He was a large man, but fat, not muscular. His voice was high-pitched and lispy, but that could have been from his terror. Chamanca smiled.

Carden took a step forward but Atlas held up a hand. Carden stood back. “Chamanca,” Atlas said. “Why don’t you have a drink?” Chamanca could have kissed him. He’d seen what she too had seen. There was something stronger than the chain of command between the captain and the soldier. Atlas grabbed the captain by the chest and pulled him away, axe blade at his throat.

Chamanca lashed out at the soldier with her blade and then her mace. The blade sliced through the leather chin-strap, the mace knocked his helmet flying. He stood, blinking at her in shock, tears pouring from big eyes. He was young, a boy really, with a pale, girlish face.

“Kneel!” she commanded.

He knelt. She walked round behind him, pinned his arms with her legs, grabbed his hair in her hands. He fell forwards. She went with him, twisted his head, and sank pointed teeth into his neck. Warm Roman blood flowed into her mouth. She swallowed. The taste was better than she remembered. She unclamped her teeth with a lovely sucking noise, looked up at the plume-headed man and smiled.

“Oh Diana,” he said, “please stop. Please don’t hurt him any more.”

“Who are you, where were you going and why?” asked Atlas, his Latin fluent and without an accent.

“I’m Publius Considius. Tribune Publius Considius. I’m going to Caesar to report that Titus Labienus has taken the hill and is ready. There, that’s all. Let him go!”

Atlas nodded at Chamanca. She bent down again and took a long suck of blood from the young man’s neck. She hadn’t pierced anything vital yet, but there was still plenty to drink.

“I’ve told you everything!” whined Considius.

“What is Labienus ready for?”

“He’s to wait for Caesar’s attack. Once the Helvetians are committed, he’s to take the camp.”

Chamanca almost asked what Helvetians were, but realised that it must be the Roman word for Helvans. They’d made up Romanised versions of perfectly good tribe names in her homeland too. It had pissed her off.

“Take the camp?” Atlas twisted his axe blade into the man’s neck.

“All right! His orders are to kill everyone and everything, take all the supplies and burn anything that can’t be plundered. Now I’ve told you everything. Please let him go.”

Atlas released his hold on Considius, who held out a hand and backed away, staring with horror at Chamanca. She winked at him.

“We’ll let your friend go,” said Atlas, “tomorrow evening, after there have been no Roman attacks.”

“But there will be!”

“There will not be. You will tell Caesar the Helvetians have guessed his plan. They ocuply the hill themselves, they have Labienus pinned down, and have set ambushes for any force that tries to rescue him. Luckily, Labienus had found a safe position. He can easily hold out until the Helvetians move on, but pleads with Caesar to hold. Tell him that Labienus said: “Certain death awaits the force that attempts to relieve us. Hold, we will reunite, and we will win this war on another day.”

Chamanca was pleased. That did sound like the sort of bullshit spouted by vainglorious Roman commanders.

“He won’t believe me!”

“He will. You look like you’ve only just made it through an ambush. And if he doesn’t believe you, we’ll kill this one. Slowly. Now go.”

Considius looked one last time at his friend, then turned and ran.

“Chamanca, he’s yours,” said Atlas.

“Oh, come on Atlas,” said Carden, “we said we’d let him go.”

Atlas took a deep breath, then spoke quietly. “The Romans have murdered thousands of Helvans. Their plan tomorrow will be to kill, among others, all of the Helvan children. If this man escapes us somehow, that is certain to happen. We have no choice but to kill him. Chamanca?”

“Hold his legs, please,” she said. Atlas did so. Carden stood back. The legionary bucked, squirmed and sent his heart pumping furiously, which suited Chamanca just fine.

C
hamanca could not stop yawning as they approached the Helvan camp in the first light. It was a long time since any of them had had more than a short nap. Carden was in the same state, but Atlas looked bright-eyed and alert as always.

It wasn’t so much a camp as more people than she’d thought were in the whole world spread out across the wide, denuded plain. There had still been a few clusters of trees when they’d first found the Helvan camp, but these had been cut down overnight. The cook fires were so numerous that it looked as if the land had sucked down all the stars. Thousands of tiny smoke tendrils merged into a large, low cloud, pink in the sun’s first rays. Atlas started talking about the need to leave some trees standing and generally manage the consumption of resources and Chamanca yawned all the more.

The wooded hill which hid Labienus’ two legions of merciless killers rose out of the plain to the north like a formori’s head out of a lake. There was no sign of the occupation. The Romans, Bel curse them, were far too disciplined to light cook fires or make any other giveaway signs.

Atlas was certain that the hidden soldiers wouldn’t attack unless Caesar’s force did, and that Caesar’s attack wouldn’t happen if Considius had done what he was told, and if Caesar had believed him. Carden, showing surprising insight, had said that Considius could have been faking his affection for the soldier, to trick Atlas into doing exactly what he’d done. Atlas had insisted that that was nonsense, but Chamanca could see that the idea had rattled him a little. Chamanca also thought it likely that Caesar would send scouts to verify Considius’ tale, but there was no point in mentioning it because there was nothing more that they could do. If the Romans did attack, the three Maidunites would have to try their best to arrange some sort of Helvan response to the force on the hill.

When they reached the tents, the Helvans were up and striking camp with hasty purpose, abuzz with the excitement of travel. It looked like their scheme had worked. The Romans should have attacked already if they were going to, since soon the Helvans would be on their way.

By the time they found the people they’d befriended the day before, next to the ancient circle of stones where they’d left them, Atlas was sure that it was too late for the Romans to attack. He asked if they could travel on one of their ox-carts. The Helvans insisted it would be an honour to have such fine Warriors aboard their humble conveyance. Despite their military shortcomings and their own hardships on the long march, the Helvans that they’d met had been generous and welcoming.

After telling the Helvans to wake them if the Romans did launch a late attack, they climbed up into the cart. Sleep was the only plan.

Chamanca woke briefly when the cart jerked to a start. Atlas and Carden were snoring. The sun was still low but already warm. Cart creaks, animal snorts and the children’s laughter filled the air. The Helvans were streaming peacefully westwards. The Romans hadn’t attacked. She put her head back down and was asleep within a few heartbeats.

She woke, by the position of the sun, in the middle of the afternoon. The cart had stopped. Atlas and Carden were still asleep. She stood. The cart was at the top of one side of a large, gently sloping valley.

“Fenn’s piss,” she said. Something had gone very wrong.

On the opposite slope were four Roman legions, twenty thousand men, arrayed in three rows. Iron helmets and gold eagle standards shone, banners flapped and rectangular shields rested on the ground in a faultless battle line. Near the top of the far side of the valley, two more Roman legions formed tidy squares.

The slope directly below them and the bottom of the valley was thick with Helvans charging towards the Romans. There were many, many more Helvans than Romans, but their attack was wholly chaotic. They were piling towards the enemy like a crowd of children let go by their parents on the edge of a fair. Some were walking, weighed down by heavy weapons, but most were running. The last part of their attack was uphill, so the younger and fitter and the few that were on horseback sped ahead of the others, futher thinning the attack.

The Romans waited for them.

An elderly, heavy-arsed Helvan woman came waddling past.

“What’s going on?” asked Chamanca.

The woman started, looked about everywhere before finally spotting Chamanca up on the cart. She put her hands on her hips. “You gave me a fright! Why aren’t you with them? You should be attacking! We’re going to crush those bastard Romans. I’d be in the front line if it wasn’t for my knees. Go on, hurry on down the hill or there won’t be any left for you to kill! A fit young woman like you lazing about up here. It’s a shame.” She shook her head.

“What happened to the migration? Why aren’t we heading west?”

“Where have you been all day? We changed direction first thing to follow the Romans. The cowards are retreating south. We’ve caught them and we’re going to have our revenge before they reach safety. We’ll teach them a lesson for killing our children at Suconna River! My daughters have promised to bring me one alive. I’m going to cook him slowly. Now, stop your chin-wagging and get down there before the fight’s over!” The woman waggled a finger at her then waddled away.

Chamanca woke Atlas and Carden. They stood and watched as the wailing Helvan charge reached the Roman front line. There was a rippling, crunching sound, then a few yells, then the dreadful harmony of hundreds of people screaming in pain. The Roman line didn’t budge a footstep. The rush of the Helvan attack dissolved like water chucked at a red-hot forge. Their dead and wounded piled up. Chamanca couldn’t see from her valley-side perch, but she pictured them lying in piles, immobile and dying, eviscerated by those wicked Roman swords.

“The fools,” said Atlas.

“Should we get down there?” Carden asked.

“We should not. We’d be killed, too.” Atlas stood, hands on hips. He was in his customary dark green tartan trousers and leather jerkin. Sworl-decorated iron bands encased each wide forearm, and his dung-brown skin was shiny on biceps wider than a slim woman’s thighs. His matted hair draped lumpen and immobile despite the stiff breeze, and the edges of his axe shone in the high sun. He looked good. Chamanca could almost see the aura of heroism surrounding him, which she thought was pretty impressive for a man who’d just declined to join a battle.

The Roman line advanced. The masses of Helvans swirled. Some fled, some threw themselves at the enemy as individually and ineffectively as before. Where there were lulls in the Helvan attack, parts of the Roman front line swapped with the fresh second line. It looked like the third Roman line’s role was to spectate.

Steadily, the Romans walked over the Helvan army like a line of scythers through a wheat field. On they came, a hundred paces forwards, two hundred paces. Fleeing Helvans, many with bloodied wounds, ran up the hill and passed the cart that Chamanca, Carden and Atlas were watching from. At first it was just a few, then it was a multitude, crying the laments of the defeated:

“Flee! Flee!”

“Save your lives!”

“The devils can’t be killed!”

Atlas shook his head. “Come on, this is over. Let’s go.”

“Wait,” said Chamanca. Along the valley to the east, not yet seen by the Romans, another mass of Helvans was approaching. They were jogging in an organised line. There were a lot of them, matching the Romans for numbers. If they were well commanded, and it looked by their good order like they were, then the battle was far from lost.